I liked my version better
by kylermalloy
Summary: When Stiles is taken, Lydia can't remember anything about him—just that she loved him. Loved him deeply. She has this idea in her head of what they were like, how in love they were. Then she remembers.


**So this is my first Stydia fic; it's been in my head for a while and I HAD to write it down. Angst abounds. Enjoy!**

* * *

I loved him.

I don't remember loving him.

What kind of love was it? Was it the fiery kind, the kind that drove us into dark corners and cramped closets, just for a taste of each other? Was it the intense kind, the sort of love that glued me to his side, entwining our hands together with the permanence of twisted tree roots? Was it the soft kind that liquefied my insides every time I saw him, the kind that filled my stomach with warmth and tenderness and butterflies all at once? The kind of love that spilled off my tongue whenever we were together?

His absence burns.

How intense our love must've been, for its absence to punch such a gaping hole in my existence.

How many times did I run into his arms, burying my face into his chest, his scent overwhelming me, intoxicating me? How many nights did I call for him, disturbed by some supernatural premonition or some ordinary nightmare? How many mornings did I awaken cradled in his embrace?

How many times have I pressed my lips to his? Breathed him in, his breath washing over my cheeks? Held his face in my hands, staring into his eyes—his eyes!

What color were his eyes?

I can _feel_ him, the ghost of his palm cupping my face, thumb caressing my cheek. His fingers threading through my hair, the gesture urgent yet calming. The way my head rested in the crook of his shoulder, the safety of his arms around me. His calloused fingertips wiping away my tears, his mere touch soothing my pain. His hand encompassing mine, whispering _Remember I love you._

I do. I remember. But he is a shape, a figure with no face, no voice, who resides in the shadows of my heart, unable to emerge fully formed.

I can't even remember the color of his eyes.

I don't remember how I loved him.

Just that I did.

...

I see him.

Coarse and young and impatient, demanding that I dance with him. His words are blunt, almost scathing, though his tone is anything but. He is pleading with me: _please, please see me._

I do. I started to.

My whole body is numb with cold. I stand pale, bloodless, unclothed. Gangly and uncoordinated, he flails to bring me a cover, to warm me.

My voice cuts through a layer of ice. His arms encircle me, a futile attempt to calm the supernatural creature inside my scream. _I'm here. I'm here. You're okay._

I am, because of him. He doesn't know that.

He can't breathe. Trembling with despair, with uncertainty, he gasps for air in vain. Without a conscious thought, I lean in, pressing my lips to his. His breath halts, his body freezing in shock. He kisses me back, lips warm and soft and hesitant. And he breathes again.

Somewhere, deep in my chest, something warm and strange and familiar seeps into my veins, soaking me in a revelation that I somehow already understood. Something akin to the wonder of the sun emerging after a storm. The release of tension, the relief, despite already _knowing_ it would happen.

But still I hold my tongue. Nothing has changed.

Did we forget this, too?

 _Insatiable,_ he snarls into my ear. Death leaks from his mouth, lives in his eyes. It isn't him.

I am too ashamed to tell him he scares me.

I forgive him. I don't tell him. He doesn't ask.

He brushes his lips against my forehead. I stand unable to move. Rigid. Lifeless. I say nothing.

Blood trails from his ear. He refuses to leave my side. I clutch his hand, the only thing holding back my scream.

 _He saved me,_ I whisper.

I don't say it.

He saves me; I save him. Push and pull. I hold him up; he shields me from danger. He reassures me; I affirm him.

Each memory could be the same one, the same adoration in his eyes—amber! his amber eyes!—as he looks at me, no matter the situation. A million times he fixes me in his gaze, eyes overflowing with kindness, humor, fear, and love, always love. A million times he invites me.

A million times I don't say it.

 _He knows. He knows._ Does he?

How could he?

I never told him.

I crafted in my head a beautiful story, one in which our love was open, a shared thing between us, instead of an unspoken _maybe_ lingering around our edges. One in which I loved with a fierce intensity, with no fear.

But it's a fairy tale. It wasn't real.

 _This_ is our story, one of lingering glances and unspoken truths, of seeing each other stolen over and over, of an intimacy that screams its profound simplicity for all to hear.

He heard it. I know he did. He just didn't know I did too.

How could I not have told him? In what world did I confess my love to someone else, someone I could not even understand how to love? Yet I kept it from the one who taught me what love is. The one who set my soul alight, who kindles the flame still today?

I loved him. Now I remember loving him.

He doesn't remember. He doesn't _know._

I never said it back.


End file.
